Flower petals fly like birds through the sky. The moon becomes a saucer from which I eat, and a fallen leaf is food for my table. Like souls touching, poetry, music, paint, and the camera keep calling, and I can't bring myself to say no. All those things have become like alien wonders, beckoning. And finding no need to ask pardon of myself, I pursue them. Their mystery is as inescapable as air is from the wind.
Gordon Parks :: 1912 - 2006
later...
He had such a beautiful soul. Lovely tribute.
Posted by: Nancy | Wednesday, 15 March 2006 at 11:11 PM
If you haven't already seen it, rent "Half Past Autumn," a documentary about Mr. Parks. Fascinating man who did fascinating work.
Posted by: m | Thursday, 16 March 2006 at 02:30 AM